After sending a note to Fotherby, canceling his plans to dine at White’s, Dom dined with his mother and her companion before taking himself off to his club where he joined a party of his friends.
Alvanley, a young baron the same age as Dom, strolled up. “Thought we’d see you in the dining room.”
He took the glass of wine a waiter handed him. “No. My mother decided to come to Town. I dined with her.”
“I see.” Alvanley lifted his glass of brandy, and after taking a sip, he asked, “Are you serious about trying to find a wife this Season? I would have thought you’ve time yet.”
Dom returned the salute. “The men in my family have a habit of dying young. I must ensure the succession.”
“Have you considered Lady Mary Linley?” His friend took a sip of port.
“Lovely girl, but I don’t think we would suit.” Dom had considered and rejected Lady Mary. He neither wished nor expected to love his wife. His uncle had been exceedingly clear that strong passion and emotions were to be avoided in a marriage. They led to disaster. Liking and companionship were sufficient in those of rank. Still, he wanted to have some desire for a wife. Though pretty enough, she reminded him strongly of a pond of ice. The surface was hard and the underneath would be just as cold. His thoughts drifted to Miss Stern. She had a great deal of passion, albeit misdirected. Would it translate to the bedchamber?
Alvanley took another drink. “Too bad. Her brother’s trying to get rid of her this year.”
“Tired of having his wife play gooseberry? Her portion is large enough,” Dom replied. “He shouldn’t have a problem.”
“What about Miss Turley?” his friend asked.
Dom hesitated. “Very lovely, yet I do not care for some of her personality traits. However, I am sure she will be fine for someone else.”
Alvanley frowned. “You’re being deuced hard to please for a man who just needs to get a child on the chit. Don’t tell me you want a love match?”
Dom raised his quizzing glass. “Of course not. Anything but. However, she must represent the family properly, and Iwillhave to bed her.”
He wandered over to the betting book and placed a wager on a curricle race to take place the next day. After which he spent the next couple of hours playing whist. At the end of the evening, even though he had a tidy sum stacked up in front of him, he couldn’t say he had enjoyed himself. For some reason, spending evenings at his club was beginning to pall, as were the endless rounds of entertainments required to find a wife.
This year’s batch of young ladies was no better than the previous year’s. Possibly worse. With the sole exception of Miss Stern, not one of them had caught his attention. Dom had never seen a young lady as lovely as she. Simply beautiful, despite her outburst this morning. Still, he could forgive her that. Many young ladies had a fondness for puppies and did not wish to see them hurt. At least she liked dogs.
Dom regarded Fotherby, sitting at a card table across the room. He was in his cups and excited about something. Not a good combination. The man had all the discretion of a bull. It occurred to Dom he had better ensure his friend didn’t mention Miss Stern.
“Merton, Merton, I say,” Fotherby called. “Tell them what happened to my boots today.”
Dom pulled out his snuff box. With a flick of one finger—just as Brummell had shown him—he opened it and took a pinch of snuff, raising it languidly to one nostril. “Fotherby, surely you do not wish me to repeat that you were afraid to stop a puppy from harming your boots. A very small puppy.”
Fotherby’s countenance turned a purplish red hue, and he sputtered. “No, the girl, Merton. The girl. She ought not be allowed to accost a gentleman like that. Shows poor breeding.”
Dom linked his arm with Fotherby’s, practically dragging his friend out of his chair. “I would be extremely displeased if you were to bandy the lady’s name about.”
Huffing a bit, Fotherby sputtered, “What’s it matter to you?”
“She is residing with my cousin. As head of the family, it is my responsibility to protect its members.”
After a moment, Fotherby touched a finger to his nose and tapped. “Oh yes, I see. Quiet. Not a word then.”
Dom smiled thinly. “You have my deepest appreciation.”
“I say, Merton, a game of piquet?”
“No, I’m for home. M’mother arrived today.”
Fotherby glanced around as if expecting his mother to appear as well. “Understand. Dreadful thing, mothers. Always in one’s business. There’s no pleasing them.”
Dom could almost sympathize with Fotherby. His mother was one of the gorgons of theton. Nothing her second-born son did measured up to her expectations. Though to be fair to the lady, she might have reason on her side. He had come into the title and, thus far, Fotherby’s main interest seemed to be clothing, brandy, and cards.
Dom retrieved his hat and cane from the doorman then walked down the steps to St. James Street. What had changed that he was suddenly so dissatisfied with his life? Good Lord, he was only seven and twenty. He mentally reviewed the list of prospective wives he had been so optimistic about only a few days ago. All of them were well-looking, some Diamonds of the First Water. But if Lady Mary was cold, Lady Jane was too solicitous. Miss Farnham laughed like a horse, and Miss Turley, hung on his every word, agreeing with whatever he said. Despite what he had said to Alvanley, until Dom had seen Miss Stern, Miss Turley had been at the head of the list. Yet how to approach Miss Stern when she was residing with Worthington, with whom Dom did not particularly get along?
He walked to his home. As expected, the door opened before he reached the top step. He had everything a man could want: a well-run house, wealth, position. He should not be so discontented. Perhaps he’d take another stroll in the Park tomorrow. This time without Fotherby.
